


Whispers of Ire

by TheCopperhead



Series: Vᴀʟɪ Lᴏᴋᴀsᴏɴ [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: Accursedness, Asgard, Fratricide, Gen, Past Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-15 11:52:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCopperhead/pseuds/TheCopperhead
Summary: This is the dire tale of Narvi and Vali, who suffered and payed an abominable price for a crime which they did not commit.





	

A lank lad strolled slowly through the waist-high and arid grass of a glade, which’s faint green to dehumidifying flavescent colours stood in abstruse contrast to the blue and blackish tones of his sordid clothing. Frangible stems were crushed under each of his steps, the sole of worn leather boots mixing the earth underneath it with their thick layers of mud and dirt from other regions. The sapling had been roaming around the entire realm over the bygone decades, traversing myriads of dark forests and grotty swamps, even crossing the ninguid mountains all alone.

But in all honesty— he couldn't remember the last time he had dared it to set even a sole foot onto such a suspect meadow. Nonetheless, he had done so, an never-ending wish for reaching the final destination actuating him like razor-sharp spurs in his sides.

Vali shut both teal spheres in an instant as gelid air waved into his pale visage, halting in his movements despite the unshielded position, nostrils widening ever so slightly as a vaporous and distinctive scent reached them. A storm was brewing as the evening drew closer, drizzle descending from the infinite world above in rapidly increasing amounts. The dryness of the earth would soon vanish, another layer of mud joining his boots. Blinking the lids of his eyes open for a glance upwards at the obscuring vault, just after tilting his head back to feel the cold drops of water upon his skin, he took in the sight until his vision almost went white.

It reminded ever so often of a certain period of time in his past; a time of utter desperation and abscondence— hiding away in the darkest and deepest of all caves, merely occasionally stealing a glance at the painfully bright world outside. This sudden tempest proved, atmospherically seen, perfect timing.

The vagrant's cheeks were wet as he directed his gaze forwards once more, blood rushing through the veins in vain attempts of producing heat. His short and raven tresses were now hanging down his forehead in wet strands, instead of waving in the faint breeze. A hum of pure relief escaped his chapped and thin lips, feet setting into motion again as soon as a small bag out of torn clothes was aligned perfectly over his shoulder. It were short and silent rhymes, which ensued the sound after the young man inhaled the damp air around him deeply.

   "When the sun goes to sleep and all the lights go pale, a spark of moonshine crawls out the window and whispers:  _Listen_ , I've a tale." 

Narvi and Vali, also known to the golden realm's nation as the 'Unlucky Sons', had been nothing but inexperienced and mostly naive younglings, even though they would have persisted on the opposite, as their horrible fate caught up with them in a sole and inclement strike and implicated both of them into a pure nightmare— a fabrication made out of the worst of fears.

It had been a beautiful morning in springtime, the clear twittering of birds entering a small family' hut through wooden window shutters and creaks in planks and holes in burned clay and stone. Vali's sleep had been undisturbed over the whole night, yet the raven-haired child had been as dormant as a dormouse during hibernation once the door into his and his brother's chamber was ripped open. It wasn't the dulcet voice of his mother, Sigyn, who used to whisper soft words and place a gentle kiss upon his forehead— no. Heavy thuds of metallic boots and rough voices were replacing the placid mother's manner at this fateful morning, armored guards of the royal palace striding right into the narrow room of an well-matured Narfi and his yet infantine sibling with fingers clutching at sharp and deadly weapons.

Afterwards, the children of two wondrous deities, were dragged roughly out of their home with iron grips around their wrists and shoulders, through the dirt of an forest and idle village and across the crowded streets of Asgard’s aureate main city. As both of them were pushed and shoved with such violence and crudity, they were watched by uncountable civilians along the way. A teary-eyed glimpse at their visages made it simple to assume for the young Vali that they knew more than the innocent boys did in that moment, but none of the all their shed tears, their pleading screams for help and mercy seemed to have an effect onto anyone’s heart.

These people; had they always been so. . . _cold_?

It was a violent journey of many hours, ending with two children being stolen from their peaceful home, lead through oppressive corridors and halls underneath the golden city and with being thrown into cells of a pathetic whiteness. The thick walls, covered with strong and concealing charms, unsparingly shone and served the divestiture of all prior privileges that came with the entering of this prison for once and forever. Surrounded by the worst of all criminals and captured inside the disreputable rooms, the brothers had nothing but themselves hold on to— until guards intruded their desperate weeping once more, separating them from each other, too.

Vali couldn’t remember a time during which he had ever cried in such desperation before or screamed his mind to the heavens. His youthful features had been covered with salty liquid, sallow skin glistening as thin arms wrapped around tugged up knees. He was left behind in the bright cell all alone, forced to watch as his chanceless brother was dragged away from him. Never would he have thought that this scene would remain with him for eternity as the very last memory of his sibling. He saw Narvi's face during every night ever since, saw the older boy's pained and harrowed expression. He heard him scream and yell for him during these final moments, listening to the sound of his own voice whimpering the other's name in return even as his own small figure was hauled out of the dungeons and into a broad arena.

Black. At this moment, everything turned black around him. Every time. There were no more exact memories about the following in the depths of his mind, except of the dark whisperings inside his head and the boiling anger in his guts, subconsciousness locking away the images, or even deleting them entirely. 

He did remembered some more feelings, though— he remembered the beginning of an choking sensation in his throat as the Allfather voiced the vile curse that would haunt him until the end of eternity, memorized the agonizing strain in the deforming bones and muscles and the laming shock as thick and raven fur started to cover his skin. He remembered the irritation about savage screams that came out of his own achingly sore gorge, the unnatural lowness and atrocious rumbling of such an inhuman noise. Vali had whispered pledges in between, or at least he thought so, but nothing else than crimson drops and bloodstained breaths ever emitted from the snout during an apoplectic outburst of unreasoned ire as the child was turned into a monstrous wolf. 

The darkness usually faded at that point of the story, indistinct memories returning slowly into conscience. A white and hot mist, his breath, still tended to nebulize his past self's sight ever so faintly, rhythmically dividing into a spectrum of many more colours and allowing certain structures, like the ones of an dusty battle ground beneath him, to become somewhat recognizable. The male often blamed his psyche for manipulating these few pieces of remembrance. In this case, however, he didn’t.

Vali had been focused onto his converted and raving self during the first nights of going through this memory in his dreams over and over again, crying over the horribleness of this eternally lasting curse and its strength and complexity, the wolfish monster continuously showing itself, making him experience all this pain over and over again.

It took a while until he discovered another piece of the puzzle, never truly managing it to discern the features of a mauled person in the blur of various reddish tones around it, though, getting the sense that it was impossible anyway, irrespective of all his efforts over the passing decades. And yet, despite everything, the young and self-taught sorcerer had soon found out who's corpse, or what was left of it, had been lying right there— right in front of him in this memory of an callous incident, the intestines mixing with mud and sand as the puddle of blood broadened around the mess, enormous and crimson paw prints leading from the torn body towards him. 

He needed no more evidence and no more clues about the identity of his tantrum's victim, aware of this committed atrocity being a punishment of a mischievous deity, his father, and aware of the people's reason to bawl at him from the circular stands all around him until he was chased through the city and out into the woods with spears and arrows digging into his flesh. All he needed was one word, which he had been given by his heart; _brother_.

   “All children are fast asleep, dreaming the sweetest things. And the moon knows a secret;                                                                                              Tschhh. . . None will make it."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> The verses are a combination of the English and German version of Johnny/Hansi's song from Witcher III— Wild Hunt.


End file.
